Happy hobbies

No, this is not a happy hobby post. In fact, that is the problem. I do not have hobbies. Whatever I have doesn’t make me happy. Let me back up and explain a bit.

I love playing the Veena. Whenever anyone calls it a hobby (for me), I smile politely and say, “No, actually it isn’t a hobby,” and they walk away thinking it doesn’t qualify to even be a hobby for me. In reality, all I am thinking is how far from a hobby it is because I freak out over getting my songs in order, making no mistakes, and polishing the performance off perfectly. Every rendezvous with my Veena is like a performance, even though all of it is to an audience of myself, within the four walls of my bedroom.

I enjoy writing. I use it as a way to get my thoughts in order. After putting those thoughts to paper, I go over the writing to edit the English, weed out repetitive words, use my favourite words, sometimes complicating passages, sometimes over simplifying them. I love the process, but I also hate it. The pursuit seems relentless, and an activity that started as a mere hobby is one of toil and passion now.

Reading is a part of me today. It was a part of me 2.5 decades back, when I was a kid. It was a part of me during all those quarterly after-exam rituals, when my parents would take me to the Landmark (Nungambakkam, Chennai) to buy a truckload of books to get through the holidays. It was a meticulous process of poring over the shelves with a long list in hand, picking and choosing, never discarding anything picked up, dragging them home and finishing them off, one after the other after the other. Nothing has changed in the years that came after. Except, the list has moved to goodreads, the shopping to Amazon, and the hole that is burnt is through mine own pocket now. The deadline is in my head, as, year after year, I compete with myself, racing against time, to read the choicest possible, as if I will not be around to finish them next year.

These are no hobbies. They are passion projects, as Google faithfully informs me.

So, a few years back, I decided to fall headlong into some hobbies, things that I absolutely suck at and have no hope or wish of excelling in. Namely, stitching and painting. Perhaps, it was knitting and coloring. I wouldn’t know the difference. One needles and threads, another makes a splash on paper with crayons, or water colours. Anyway, I got myself a Stitch Kit and threaded away feverishly at a Krishna outline. I got so involved, that I forgot it was supposed to be a hobby meant to calm me down. I stitched one of the parts (the hair perhaps) in red instead of black. And, I got very frustrated with the lack of perfection and gave up. Maybe, that’s why it remains a hobby I look back on fondly (or otherwise). The key is to be able to give up and try it again some other time, without taking it personally. I have mastered the first half, which is giving up. But, the whole hobby thing is too daunting for me to try again, without any stake in the game.

I am on to Mandala coloring these days. The book and colour pencils have been procured. A good start is a job well done. Or some such. I am told Mandala coloring is the most peaceful thing on Earth. Let’s see how I break it to pieces.

Me-time is overrated

No - the title is purely click bait. Or is it? I need to go back a few days in time to narrate this story so you can decide for yourself whether the title is really click bait.

You can read the entire article here.

2019 - My year in books

Since I read 40 books this year, I am considering myself eligible to make “My top 10 books for the year” list. These were the ones that stood the test of being read in bits and pieces, in nooks and crannies of time, without a care for ambience or setting, or medium, started on the kindle, continued on the phone, finished on the kindle or the other way round. 

So, here goes, in no particular order:

Bad Blood - The con that was Theranos

Investigative journalism can be a potent tool, something we do not see much of in this day and age of click bait articles and hurried breaking news. This book talks about how one start up conned Silicon Valley out of billions of dollars, with only a vision and a dream, and no output at all. 

Circe - When a God wants to be human

Circe is a riveting book, and for no particular reason. It is neither a thriller, nor a murder mystery. It is mythology, fantastical, about Helios and Odysseus and a slew of other characters we have read about in various other books. Circe, the ‘weird’ daughter of Helios, goes through thousands of years of existence with Gods and Humans before figuring out what she wants.

Less - No reason to avoid this Prize winner

I am very wary of prize winning books, particularly Pulitzer Prize ones. I have had more than one “struggling to finish” experience. Less is nothing like that. Less is more than any prize winner. It is hilarious, breezy, deep, easy to read, nuanced, joyful. It’s the story of a mildly successful but perfectly forgettable gay author and his lovers, young and old. Makes you root for a happy ending, for no particular reason!

American Gods - A shopping Mecca

I have feared picking this book forever. It’s long, for one. And, it sounds a bit too quirky for my liking. I don’t really relate to this genre much, except I really really like Neil Gaiman’s works. “What genre is this?” you may ask. I don’t know. It seems like fantasy, but also reads like a thriller, is humorous, but also makes you think philosophically. If this book were refreshed today, a number of the “Modern Gods” that we swear by day in and day out will join the list. I still get nightmares of Shadow’s dead wife, Laura, so is it horror? Perhaps. But it’s worth the time, as you shop around for Gods. 

A gentleman in Moscow - Very gentle, very Russian

If I had to choose a favourite book this year, it would be this. And since I dedicated an entire post to this book, I am not going to trouble you going into the details again. But, pick it up. If you want to refresh your memory about or learn about 1900s Russia, through the eyes of this very perfect gentleman. 

The Testaments - A story of hope

I read Atwood’s now universally famous (thanks to Hulu), Handmaid’s Tale quite late in life, only a couple of years back. I have a thing for the dystopian. I have read that notorious 1984 but also many of the not so popular dystopian novels with the abject goal of wanting to feel terrified about the future. This was no different, I thought. But Handmaid’s Tale left me hopeless and desolate, giving up on the world in general, waiting with fear for the day when my bank account would be wiped out because I don’t matter anymore as a person. The Testaments gives me much needed hope, that it will all be ok in the end. Much needed hope in this rabid world. Perhaps, that’s the reason she deserves the prize this time. I don’t know, I am no judge, only a fan. 

The widows of Malabar Hill - The early days of India’s equality movement

The only paperback I read this year, because it isn’t available on the Kindle. This story is a mystery of sorts, but for me, it is just an eye opening account of how far we have come as women. Set in 1920s Bombay and told through the eyes of the first woman lawyer (fictional character based on more than one living person of those times), it puts out the struggles of being accepted in a fully male profession. Of course, privilege and her dad’s backing help; despite that it’s an uphill task. As you read about how men wouldn’t listen to an intelligent and successful lawyer because she is a woman, you do tend to think, “Have things really changed fully?” No, there’s so much work on our hands yet. 

City of Thieves - Fun yet sorrowful

I was quite wary of picking this book given Benioff’s horrible Game of Thrones season finale. But, it turned out to be a surprisingly good read. My second book for the year set in Russia, right in the middle of World War II, where two accused set out in search of eggs for a senior military official’s daughter’s wedding cake so they can be given back their food coupons. It is tragi-comic, and the ending made me tear up a bit. But, let me not give the story away, in case you plan to read this one.

She Said - For all the Me Too movement supporters, and the non supporters too

This book takes us behind the scenes of how the Harvey Weinstein story was broken, and the ripple effects it caused across the US and the world. Investigative journalism at its best, it is a must read to understand how important it is to corroborate evidence, put together events in chronological order, identify credible witnesses and test them. Because, “He said, she said” is the trap we need to come out of to take it a notch beyond just what’s ‘said’ by both parties and provide watertight proof so the movement endures the test of time. 

A Crooked House - Only comfort food

My reading lists are never complete without an Agatha Christie or a PGW thrown in. I am just old fashioned like that. This book has no Poirot, no Marple. The story’s a bit strange, crooked if you may. The ending even more so. There’s standard Christie template at work, but it does leave you with a strange after taste. That’s what murder mysteries are supposed to do, after all. 

Learnings from a pig

That pig has taken over the world. At least the world I inhabit today. She is smiling at me from bookshelves, laughing down from stationery aisles, filling up my recommendation lists on YouTube and Amazon Prime, sitting on my kid’s shoulders as a backpack. Oh! You name it and she’s there.

You can read the entire article here.

The trauma of decision making

She was singing the national anthem in her sleep last night, complete with the ‘Jaya He’ with hands raised, and the Jai Hind salute to top it off. It was a tough night for her, with intermittent fever and coughing. I had just then decided that she should skip the Sports Day celebration at school this morning, when the national anthem happened. My heart stopped for a second. This little one had practiced hard for almost a month, learning to run in tracks, marching past left-right-left, and mugging the national anthem up, impeccably so. It was not fair to take D-day away from her, I tried reasoning with myself. And, then, the fever hit again.

You can read the entire article here. 

More bitter than sweet

I wake up (very early) in the morning and hurriedly edit and push two blogposts out, random scribbles that have been sitting in my drafts on the phone for days now. It is a race against time, as I pick up the newspaper in a bid to read my choicest columns in the Mint Lounge. It is a race against time, even though it is Saturday, an off day and I have woken up well before the roosters can have the advantage of crowing me out of bed (actually, that’s a hyperbole, because Mumbai has only pigeons and a whole lot of their shit).

You can read the entire article here.

Dadar - the dada of all markets

There is many a written word on the beauty of Colaba, the allure of Bandra, the homeliness of Matunga. But, what about Dadar? Dadar deserves an essay of its own, if not a book. 

As I sit in a cab that’s unmoving on top of the Dadar bridge overlooking the station, some things are hard to miss. An entire army of people that might pass off for the population of New Zealand on that foot over bridge jostling towards (or away from) the train station -  if there’s an award winning claustrophobic site / sight in the world, that’s the one. Up ahead, a decrepit building is being refurbished. Rather, attempts are being made to salvage a room and cement it in white. Windows in other parts of the building are open, giving a sneak peak into those lives, their TVs and their file cabinets. Yes, it’s a mish mash of work and home, papers and paper dosas. Then comes the flower market. One shop is enticing, at least from the bridge. The board proclaims “SNB flower designer”. Quite a connoisseur this one must be. No ordinary flower vendor but a boutique designer, a stand out amongst mere mortals. 

Traffic is at a standstill, and I let my thoughts wander beyond the views of the station and its vicinity. I have never really got a hang of Dadar, the market. Which road leads to the highway and which one my way, has always been cause of great consternation to me. So I walk through the roads, mingling amongst the cars and bikes, and the never ending human populace, playing a game of elimination to extricate myself from the maze. Not before ‘intricating’ myself within, because there are things to be purchased. Do you know that a single store in Dadar (perhaps 100 sq ft in size) houses all the things on my list at any given point of time, ranging from screw drivers to scissors, paper clips to tea strainers? There’s another store with all the cooking utensils I will need in life, in brass and stainless steel, with copper bottoms and insulated handles, suiting the cooking styles of the South and the North and the home ground of Western India too. There are rows and rows of shops selling children’s tricycles in all colours and styles, genial shop owners encouraging kids to sit on them and try before buying. Fabric stores and saree shops beckon, with bright coloured and sequinned wear, that the South Indian conservative in me would never wear but would love to ape at from the windows. There are jewellery shops hiving off from the main market where one can buy that quick silver (not quicksilver), a gift for someone, or perhaps even gold. 

It is futile trying to drive through Dadar  market, obviously because there is no space. Not so obviously, because Dadar has sights and sounds you don’t want to miss, where the lane leading off from the flower seller has knick knacks that you urgently want, even though you may never need them in your life. 

The only time you can drive through the market is after 11 pm, but the time I like the most is 4.30 am. The market doesn’t really sleep, but it wakes up from a quick nap then, with the industrious sellers setting shop already getting their wares from wherever they get them from, fresh flowers and vegetables and fruits, as they get ready to hustle and bustle around for the day. 

Apparently there is a paan kulfi fellow somewhere there, that I haven’t encountered yet. His kulfis are to die for, I am told. Perhaps this weekend I will die for them, lost in the labyrinth and not finding my way out. 

A Gentleman in Moscow

After a long time, I am feeling a strange sense of yearning after finishing a book. Like a part of me is over, a part of me that was vicariously living through a gentleman in an attic, as he went about his strange life of being a Former Person. His breakfast of cookies and coffee, his lunch of veal and chicken, his preference of entrees and appetisers, his wine pairing skills, the knack of placing customers at dinner such that no fights erupted in a freshly minted Russia just out of the revolution, the very beauty in being a Highness and being a waiter with the same aplomb. 

If Scarlett O ‘Hara is the protagonist with whom I relate the most, Rostov is the protagonist that I wish I were. With his keen curiosity and zest to take life on, be it on the rooftop or in the basement, Count Rostov has no dearth of variety in him, despite not having stepped out of The Metropol Hotel in over 35 years.

A Gentleman in Moscow is poetry, with symphony running in the background, in our minds, taking us through the life of Count Rostov as he begins his indefinite imprisonment in the hotel he was staying in, deigned to ignominy for the rest of his life. The story isn’t about his trials and tribulations, about him talking to himself and getting philosophical or about his learnings and appreciation for the smaller things in life. The story is his journey and a certain subtlety in romanticising his predicament, if you may call it a predicament. Many a book has romanticised sorrow, there is merit in beautifying the everyday struggle. It gets to the reader’s heart and tugs on it making her want more of the book. But, what Amor Towles has done with this piece is create a lilting melody that the reader doesn’t realise her heart is being tugged with. There is no moment for pity or nostalgia. There are friendships to be made, promises to be kept, surprises to be sprung, romantic rendezvous to be kept, and amusements to be had, many times at others’ expenses. 

This book could easily pass off as historical fiction, for it takes us through the journey of the Revolution, the rise of industrial Russia, the agricultural famine of the 30s, briefly touching upon world war 2, and ends around when Stalin dies. All through the Count’s eyes and his experiences, of course. Which is limited to the people he meets within the hotel. But, you need to be the Count (or vicariously him, or Amor Towles) to know that there is more to be learnt inside a hotel than in any other place in Moscow. 

Anyway, I am going to end this here, I need to taste my packaged honey to figure out if there’s a hint of lilac or apple in it, for where do bees in the highly polluted city of this millennium’s Bombay source their honey from? If you didn’t get that reference and you would like to, maybe it is time to spend some time with a certain gentleman who lived in the attic of The Metropol hotel in 1930s’ Russia. Meanwhile, like how the Count would go to bed after a snifter of Brandy every night, I would keep revisiting passages from this book on and off, because it’s that kind of a book, a sort of comfort when all else might be shaky and uninspiring. 

Saree connoisseurs

My mother and I, we are saree connoisseurs. My mother more so than me I guess. Well, she has had the advantage of being older, hence starting earlier. I remember my mom in the 90s, carrying off super cool sarees and blouses, ranging from cotton to chiffon to soft silk. And the lady would have bought each one of them for less than 300 rupees. That’s some smarts I don’t have. What I do have, is the love for saree. I can gaze at sarees online for ages, the sight of the pictures calms me down, makes me happy, whatever. I like adding them to my cart, gazing at them lovingly for another few days, and never checking out. It’s such a brilliant pastime.

You can read the entire article here.

Survived

That’s what I wanted to message my near and dear, after an 18 hour long flight all alone with my 2.5 year old. But, what did I anticipate would happen otherwise? That I would run away midway? Jump off the aircraft perhaps? Die from hypertension?

You can read the entire article here.

Don't worry, we are in this together

Last evening, we went out for dinner, having left little person at home to dine and milk without us. A baby in the restaurant started wailing inconsolably, the dad rushed out with the child, then the mom, then the grandparents. I could hear the wail from outside, and as I saw the faces of the parents, all I wanted to do was to reach out and tell them, “Don’t worry, we have all faced this and continue facing it. You will get through this.”

You can read the entire article here.

The book penseive

This morning, I took upon myself the onerous task of cleaning my book shelf. Mine, I say possessively, though it was a gift for our wedding from our friends. Mine, I say possessively, because anything books is always mine. My favourite bookmark, my favourite bookshop, my favourite reviewer, my favourite recommender of books, my favourite books all of them. Almost. There is a bunch of non fiction across those racks I will never claim to be mine. Not over my dead body. Those are V’s. 

As I cleaned the racks, a lot of dust got raked up. Literally. But, figuratively too. The P. G. Wodehouse omnibuses beckoning me to drop everything and start reading immediately. The Vikram Seths wondering where I had absconded for so long. The always dependable Jeffrey Archers smiling as if to say, “I knew you will come back to me.” That random book about Marie Antoinette I had picked up at a bookshop in Paris asking me how I felt about history now that I had read another take on the woman who famously said, “Let them eat cake” (apparently, she didn’t, as per this book). A customised book my colleagues at EY had gifted me on my last day, reminding me of happy days, great memories. A travel diary I had filled up while tripping across Eastern Europe sparking memories of a cute and cosy hostel room and a very dear friend. The first ABC book I had got for my kid telling me how far she has come, reading through pages of the Monkey Puzzle and the Pout Pout Fish. 

Books are like pensieves. Once you look down a book, you won’t know what memory might draw you in, spawning a hundred other related thoughts. 

What today’s clean(s)ing experience gave me is also a lot of clarity. I think I have known this forever but never acknowledged - the Kindle can never replace a book. Never have I opened my list of books on a Kindle and felt a pensieve drawing me in. Never have those books on the Kindle beckoned me with outstretched hands saying, “drop everything you are doing right now and lose yourself in the scent of my pages.”

I know what I will do when I grow up and grow old and have a lot of money and a room of my own. A huge bookshelf with hard copies (preferably hard bounded copies) of all those books I would have read on the kindle by then. Only point to note - it will be a covered bookshelf (with glass doors) so I don’t ever have to do deep cleaning of books again, only enjoy looking at them all day long. 

A confession

I have been thinking about Greta Thunberg a lot of late. Predictably so. She has been all over the news. Anyway, this post isn’t about her or what she is doing. I don’t care whether she is a child actor, or has been instigated by certain elements, or whatever. She has been talking about a burning issue that a lot of eminent scientists and environmentalists have been drawing our attention to, for years. And she has been phenomenally more successful than all those eminent adults, even if it means attracting vitriolic comments from full grown adults, and trolling from none other than the POTUS. 

This post is about me and my own relationship with climate change. I know climate change is real, because I have seen my hometown Chennai drowning in 2015, I have seen my lovetown Mumbai witness increasingly erratic weather and monsoons. I worry about climate change incessantly. But I don’t care enough to do anything about it. In that way, I am a bit like Anushka Sharma, at my own level. 

I don’t use public transport, I like disposables, I enjoy AC, I love gadgets, I used to be a flying consultant. I haven’t done a single thing that contributes positively to the environment. Except I am not a flying consultant anymore. And I have always been a vegetarian. Those two aren’t conscious choices for the sake of the environment, so nay! No brownie points there. 

When a 16 year old takes a stance like this and travels across the sea from Sweden to UN, it takes tremendous effort and focus. When I can do 1/1000th of that change to my life, I will be in a marginally better position to comment on Greta Thunberg. And meanwhile, I am going to work hard to see what’s that one change I can make to my own life that will make me feel like I have taken a step in the right direction as far as the environment is concerned.

While I am at it, I will sit back and enjoy how Greta is taking on the biggest troll in the world. 

Make hay while the rain pours

Mumbai is the new Cherrapunji, wet all through the year, the rate at which it is going. Cherrapunji, when I last visited last (a decade ago), was bone dry, like the Chennai of those years. Chennai, of course, is the new Mumbai, with every year’s flood besting the previous ones. Global warming has come one full cycle. Or, as Trump would say, it is the coldest, bestest rainy season ever, why are people rambling about ‘warming’?

You can read the entire article here.

In a lifetime...

I was 17 when I was molested for the first time. It was a public molestation, in a crowded bus, that was ferrying me from the railway station (I took a train back from college) to a point closer home.

You can read the entire article here.

The mother tribe: A primer to guilt-free mothering

It was pouring outside, or as my daughter would say, “It is raining, it is pouring.” The roads had flooded thanks to the incessant deluge and BMC issued an advisory not to travel. So did our HR, messaging on the office WA group, asking us to work from home that Monday morning. I only had one question in response. “Is the office open?”

There was radio silence for a bit, and then a curt “Yes”.

You can read the entire article here.

The monsoon convert

Everyone in India has a monsoon story. Mostly more than one.

And none of them start with, “It was a windy afternoon and as I looked out of the window while sipping tea, the drizzling started, slowly at first, coming down in sheets thereon. As the rainbow appeared from afar, I contemplated swimming in the brook up ahead, to the pitter patter in the background.”

Because everyone I know has a monsoon story from our cities, our ever-imploding, under-serviced, groaning-under-our-weight cities.

I have one memorable story from each city I have lived in – Chennai, Mumbai, Gurgaon.

And ALL of them have to do with how I was stranded in waist deep water with nowhere to go, and it was dark but not lonely, because there were thousands of others stranded exactly like me. Apologies, my Gurgaon story is a little different. I was stranded but inside my car. I don’t think I would be here writing this post if I had been stranded outside. You don’t know why? Oh, you naïve being, don’t ever get stranded outside a car in Gurgaon in a bid to figure out why.

Anyway, I digress. This post isn’t about run-of-the-mill, cities flooding, cars floating and drowning, sewage dumps opening and devouring people kind of stories.

It is about the spirit of the monsoons. Wait, isn’t that the spirit of Mumbai? It is actually about the spirit of Mumbai during monsoons.

I don’t know if this is true about other cities (definitely not Chennai) but Mumbai wholeheartedly celebrates the rains. And like how! At the sight of the first rains, these mad, mad people are on the roads dancing (to avoid potholes), getting drenched in the rain (because it is too windy to carry umbrellas) and generally getting gleeful and happier (it’s true, the grins are wider).

Come June-mid, consumerism goes to a high, as every store in the city announces a monsoon sale that goes on for at least two months, running up to ‘Ganpati Bappa Moraya’. The roads of Dadar overflow with people holding colorfully large umbrellas big enough to engulf you, your family, and your one room kitchen Mumbai house, as they cross the jammed and crowded roads of Khabutar Khana in a bid to reach the stores. Matunga is a bit saner, as always, the elder sister to its chaotic Dadar sibling, the responsible adult in the works. Here, aunties in Lucknawi kurtas with exquisitely embroidered dupattas get down from BMWs that they hopped into on the adjacent lane, as they make their way slowly across to buy sarees they may never wear in their lifetime (I am your friendly neighborhood judgmental Saree connoisseur). The malls drown under the weight of the early morning shoppers as the trial rooms start overflowing with people and dresses.

My first full-fledged Mumbai monsoon was in 2008. And was it an experience or what. I was scared stiff, tired, and forever damp. Everything got damp and moldy, the furniture, the clothes, the footwear, the books. Even the laptop looked at me with sad camera eyes, begging for a blanket that would keep the dampness away. By day 3 of the season, I started asking around when this would taper off. Remember, I grew up in the Chennai of the 90s and 00s where monsoons lasted all of two days. That’s when some kind soul at work informed me this will go on for 3 months. It was the most horrible time of my life, I assure you.

We are in 2019 now. This year, the monsoons have been quite the rage. Unlike last year and last to last year when we were all sad the lakes (and the city pavements) weren’t filling up fast enough, this year, Mumbai has been in over achievement mode. Potential to be rated 5, in corporate employee parlance. But then again, exceptional rain is only expected performance from Mumbai, hence we will have to settle at a 3 ok.

A colleague of mine who has recently moved from Delhi looks out every day at the rains lashing down outside the office windows, worriedly saying “Aaj bahut kharab lag raha hai. Ghar kaise jaayenge?” A Mumbai boy amongst us assures him it isn’t as bad as it looks, we are on the 17^th floor, too near to the clouds to get an unbiased dataset, and anyway the weather always clears up in half an hour in Mumbai. I am not so kind, nor do I remember I was that scared colleague over a decade back. I guffaw and say, “It is Mumbai. It is July. It is supposed to rain in July in Mumbai. Otherwise, how does the world make sense?”

I am a convert, the Mumbai type, who steps out to get drenched in the rains of the first week, who checks the lake levels and gets happy, as if it is some personal achievement deserving of additional bonus. I am also a convert from the beginning of the monsoon when I didn’t want my Little Person to get any exposure to the rain to the middle of the monsoon when I happily pick her up and take her to school come rain, or pouring rain, all the while singing “It is raining, it is pouring.”

This has got nothing to do with the spirit of Mumbai, which, in probability, doesn't exist, except on sensational TV channels (branded ‘news’). This is exactly what normalizing extraordinary situations looks like. And, when habits get formed across many years, it is hard to remember what your normal was before you got introduced to all this madness.

Parenting - A restraining order

Parenting is 99% restraint. Another 99% perspiration. A further 99% patience. Looks like I exceeded the 100% mark way back there. Anyway, all I want to focus on today is restraint.

You can read the entire article here.

Toy stories: Recommendations for all age groups, almost

In the past week, I have proven my worth as a toy expert more than once. And I have done it so well that I am thinking of updating my Twitter bio to “Toy buyer for hire”. It has a nice rhythmic ring to it too.

Anyway, for now, I think I will share my expertise for free, so the next time you grapple with the question of “What should I buy for my friend’s or relative’s X year old kid”, this post could come in handy.

You can read the entire article here.

Language pangs, or perhaps not

When I first made my foray into Bombay, the thing I struggled the most with wasn’t home food or monsoons or living alone, but language. For someone whose primary languages back home are Tamil and English, the Marathi mixed Hindi was a challenge. It still is, when people reference Hindi idioms and quote famous Bollywood dialogues in context.

You can read the entire article here.

The vicious cycle of mandatory attendance

A friend threw a question at me yesterday – “Should attendance be mandatory in undergrad colleges?”

It takes us to the fundamental input vs outcome-linked model. Let’s break that down.

If books can teach everything and the teachers in class and debates between students add little value, while the exams are linked purely to the books, then there is no true worth to attending a class.

If books can only guide students to learn while the teacher can take it a notch up and help in the application of those learnings, encouraging debates and discussions in class, whether or not the exams are linked to mugging up the textbooks or are application oriented, there is merit in attending the class.

In college, all of us have gone through both these types of classes – the ones where the teaching is only a verbalization of the book and the ones where the teaching is so many notches higher in giving insights that the textbook becomes only a supporting guide.

So, the onus is really on educational institutes to be able to provide quality teaching to attract students to the class and get quality outcome. Reducing learning to an input based, mandatory attendance model is detrimental in the long run.

And do you know how detrimental? Let’s move on to the step after college. These students become office goers, the two types there. The input-focused ones and the outcome-focused ones.

The former exhibit and inculcate a culture of spending time in office, putting in long hours, staying till lights go off, speaking about how they spend 14 hours in office because life is a ‘desk-sitting’ competition, analyzing every other colleague from that perspective.

The latter work towards outcomes, have sensible meetings when required, stretch hours if there is an urgent team delivery involved, pack up and go home when the outcomes are achieved, and take flak from the input-focused team for leaving in ‘half a day’ when leaving at 6 pm.

So, perhaps it is time to start at college, to help students understand how value addition needs to be measured so that we can build better team leaders, managers, business heads, and CEOs. Who fill focus on adding value to their clients and shareholders rather than increase the OpEx with an extended use of electricity and pantry in office.

A periodic forever

I started getting my periods around 1996. Or 1997. Sometime thereabouts. My parents kept it a well-guarded secret for years after, not wanting anyone in the extended family to treat me differently or indulge in difficult conversations. But, the practices I saw around me were all pervasive. Most of my extended family followed a “No kitchen, no Pooja room, no touching bed, not even the sofa, no physical contact with anyone” kind of model those days. I think they still do. Those images have stayed with me for a long time now.

For many years I didn’t believe in idol worship. Then I moved to being agnostic. Now I am a full time atheist, the kind who goes to temples to admire the architecture and then stand and stare as the Aarti takes place. But, I hesitate before walking into the kitchen that houses the Pooja area when I am having my periods.

I am an unabashed feminist. Mostly. I am part of the D&I committee at work, I try to attract all my ex-female colleagues to my place of work so we can be a more balanced organization, I worry about the lack of representation at the head of the table. I am the works. But, I carry my fresh sanitary pad well concealed in my purse from the office desk to the toilet.

Conditioning acts in strange ways. It makes us irrational and illogical, unquestioning of processes that have been followed forever (our own definition of forever) and takes us a step beyond, making us sticklers to follow those processes. Because. Because, we don’t know any other way it is done.

It explains why we don’t put our feet on books, for instance. I try to ‘logicise’ that our feet are dirty because the ground is dirty, because Indian floors always try to attract dirt so it will make the books dirty. But, really? Who am I kidding? I have been told for a long time I am not supposed to put my feet on books because books are a manifestation of “Goddess Saraswathi” and putting our feet on books is as good (or as bad) as putting our feet on the Goddess herself.

Anyway, last week was my first step towards breaking away from this conditioning. No, I don’t think I will ever bring myself to putting my feet on books because that conditioning is too strong. But, after 11 years and roughly 430 period days (adjusting for maternity) in an office environment, I found the courage to walk to the toilet from my desk with the pad in my hand, and not in a purse. Even then, I had it in the inside of my palm so it wasn’t out there in plain sight. But, baby steps.

I dream of giving my daughter a world where she goes about her period days like any other normal day, carries the tampon to the toilet in plain sight, explains to her male friends / colleagues why she looks sick, and thinks of menstruation as the most normal thing to happen to a healthy girl (even more normal than contracting a cold because a cold is really nothing to wear on the sleeve like a badge of honor).

This dream of mine is simple and doable, compared to every other dream, because it is so in my control. All I need to do is to call out ‘conditioning’ to her when she encounters it, so she doesn’t have to work it backwards after 30 years of spending life on this Earth.

The imposition syndrome

I learnt Hindi back in 1996 for three years. At school. It was my third language, like that distant cousin who you might be polite to at a wedding party once in a while but cannot really stand in regular WA groups.

In my traumatized 3-year relationship with Hindi, which was kind of the mandatory third, because the only other option was Sanskrit (the Latinest of the Latins in my world), I am happy to inform you that I aced the subject. If you don’t know me, you wouldn’t know that I am undoubtedly the biggest mugger upper alive. Context or no context, science or no science, logic or no logic, I can actually ace anything (I learnt Mandarin three years back and topped that too, only difference being I really liked learning it and wanted to learn it Xie Xie).

Anyway, coming back to Hindi, very good help those three years of Hindi imposition did, because I turned up in Bombay in 2008, and asked the auto wallah what Sau meant, can he please say that in English. As an aside, in Chennai, we call them autos, not rickshaws.

It took me years and constant reminders to colleagues and friends at lunch and dinner tables to explain what that Hindi statement they made just then was, and after being (still am) the butt of many a joke, I have mastered the difference between pone bara and sava bara. But, I am informed that I don’t really know Hindi because I think cucumber is kakadi and potato is batata. Well, well, when you learn the pure Hindi of Bombay, it does morph into Marathi eventually.

Point being, Hindi imposition doesn’t really help. It makes us, the ones who didn’t make the choice to learn the language, very defensive. We learn the other languages better than the one being imposed on us. Also, we learn to survive with the languages we know. We learn to navigate the societies we live in, picking up local languages on the way.

So, if someone is selling this trope that learning Hindi is useful for the Southest of the South Indian, the Tamil, to survive in the Northest of the North Indias (which is all of it beyond the Vindhyas as far as we are concerned), sorry not required. We will fall and rise and fall and rise.

To sum up, TR style:

Say no to Hindi imposition

While doing Tamil composition.

Our right to the constitution

Cannot have any substitution.

Super Deluxe - Super? Deluxe? Neither?

Honestly, I am not sure so many many people could have enjoyed a movie this lengthy (2h 50m). But the reviews say so. My timeline says so. So, it must be true. No?

As for me, I didn’t enjoy it in its wholesome fulsome form. I didn’t enjoy that wonderful extra marital affair ending up with a dead body culminating in a loud “what the fuck” with an impressionable little boy in the vicinity, transforming into some Maniratnam-esque drivel in a Jeep, albeit with no whispers (small mercies). I didn’t enjoy that theism-atheism-maybe theism twist of Arputham ending in a shower of diamonds. I most definitely didn’t enjoy the alien sub plot set amidst all that uncanny reality. 

What I did enjoy was that another little boy and his phenomenal acting, as he waits for his father, as he parades his father around, as he hits his father who attempts to run away again from him. I enjoyed the escapades of those boys, the raw need for adolescent masturbation, the silly mistakes and the even sillier misplaced virtuosity. I enjoyed the erstwhile porn star running from pillar to post trying to save the life of her son who tried to kill her because he saw her in the porn movie he tried watching. 

I enjoyed those Ilaiyaraja songs, though I had to read up the reviews post facto to understand the placement. I guess I didn’t have a childhood that could relate to the song placements. Or, I was just not concentrating enough. 

V says he doesn’t like stories that are agenda driven. Fiction needs to be fiction, agenda needs to be agenda. One shouldn’t try to weave a story around an agenda to force fit messaging. I honestly don’t care. Some of those agenda driven scenes were riveting and they worked for the masala driven fan in me. The one where the father and son are caught in the toilet, the one in half light and half darkness where one person confessed to another about their sins.m, the one about the wife who gets the raw end of the deal.

But that’s the problem. It is a movie in parts. And I don’t think it was worthy enough sitting through 3 hours to enjoy parts of a movie rather than a movie as a whole. 

Growing up, fangs 'n all

She settles into the crook of my arm, and letting out a slight snore, falls into deep slumber. She’s so tall her feet already hit my thighs and as I look down upon her, I know that it won’t be long before she won’t fit within me anymore, she who used to fit inside me a couple of years ago.

You can read the entire article here.

What to wear or not to wear

I came across a tweet today from a person who calls themselves a corporate leadership coach – a photo of someone in their pyjamas at breakfast in a ‘business’ hotel, with a narrative of how there are etiquettes on what to wear to breakfast at a business hotel, in the business lounge where there are numerous others having breakfast meetings in their business suits. Someone else responded to it with how a woman comes in pyjamas to the lake where they go for a run, and they feel like having a chat with them about the attire.

Got me thinking.

I was born and brought up in super conservative and traditional Chennai. But, somehow, for all the rules and discipline my parents enforced upon me, they never really thought much about what was appropriate for me to wear. I myself was not (still am not) super comfortable with my body, large made as I was (am), so I ended up dressing in clothes that covered me up, if not in the traditional sense. That is to say, I didn’t own even a single 'pavadai thavani', but I did own a lot of nice long skirts and pretty tops, even super cool long dresses.

So, this was early adolescence, and I was on a roll as far as the Veena playing was concerned. My teacher believed I was going to go places* (hey, it’s ok to brag sometimes) and my parents (who thought the world of my teacher, easily the best Veena teacher in town) lapped up her words instantly. Chennai being Chennai had multitudes of music competitions across the city, and my parents would take me to contest in them, whenever I could. Which wasn’t too many times, because, it had to be a Sunday, no tests / exams the next day, daughter shouldn’t be looking ill else it will tire her out etc etc. So, some limited competitions I attended. And always in dresses I liked to wear. Which would inevitably be my ‘lucky’ dress, the one I wore when I won the first prize in a competition for the first time. Anyway, this one time, I think it was in a competition conducted by the Tambras Foundation, the organizers had a problem with my attire. “Why isn’t she in traditional wear? How can we let her go up in this?”, they said. Incidentally, I was wearing a salwar suit that day (my lucky dress having gone through significant wear and tear). Dress codes hadn't been mentioned in the rules and regulations, so after a bit of back and forth dialogue, I eventually played in the competition. But, I didn’t win. I have wondered forever whether it was because all the others were in traditional wear while I wasn’t.

It was a strange moment for me, this whole dressing-up-in-a-certain-way-for-a-certain-thing thing. My parents had never told me that. They had only told me to practice well and perform on stage, they had never told me there was a costume code. They, of course, didn’t know. Anyway, that incident made me mighty defiant, and to this date, I have tried not to wear something traditional when am doing something traditional, like playing the Veena (whether playing the Veena is just a traditional affair is fodder for another post). Today, when I look back, I have more clarity about why I was and am in the right. I had gone to play the Veena, and I went dressed in something that would give me comfort, so I could give ‘playing Veena’ my best shot. I wasn’t there to give my best shot at role playing a traditional sweet looking girl posing for a photo op with the Veena in hand.

Coming back to the tweets I read today, I would apply the same logic. The person who came for breakfast didn’t come for a business meeting. He/she was just having breakfast. So what if it’s a business hotel. As long as the hotel didn’t enforce any strict rules on what to wear to the spaces outside the rooms, it didn’t matter. If people were getting distracted from their breakfast meetings to look at the person wearing pyjamas and clicking a pic to post to Twitter (which is a bigger and graver mistake than wearing pyjamas to breakfast in a business lounge), I would wonder how focused these attendees were on their own meetings. And as to the person jogging by the lake, if we could only focus on our running and jogging, we wouldn’t really notice or bother even if the rest of the world is taking a naked sunbath by the lake. Jogging in a public space is no private moment, so our dressing sensibilities cannot be imposed upon others.

*Cheap insert: I have resumed Veena playing after a long time. You can listen to some Filmi music on my Youtube channel